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He was just one of the half dozen midnight-black kittens nestled in an Amazon box, but he was the only one who let me pick him up. Despite Ellie’s insistence that she was allergic to cats, I took him to the vet the next day, and he’s been the love of my life ever since.
“Hey, buddy,” I said as I scooped him up in my arms. He nudged my chin with his head. “Did you have a good day?”
“He ate my headphones again!” Ellie called from the kitchen. She stood at the kitchen counter, intently chopping a tomato.
Ellie worked from home as a recruiter for a tech company, so most of her wardrobe consisted of stylish athleisure pieces that cost more than half my paycheck.
She wore a lavender tank top and a pair of black leggings. Her bleach-blonde afro was piled in a messy bun at the top of her head.
Ellie possessed an easy, unassuming beauty. We’d been best friends since the day we met at a postmodern literature seminar at DePaul University.
“Well, did you put them in your desk drawer?”
“No, why would I do that?”
“So, Lobo doesn’t eat them. What are you making?”
“Caprese grilled cheese. I just remembered that I still have a bunch of basil from the farmer’s market and that mozzarella. Want one?”
“Sure, thanks, Elle,” I grabbed my bread from the refrigerator and began buttering a couple of slices.
“Do you still want to hang with Cam tonight?”
“Shit, that’s tonight?”
“Yeah, his record release show is this Friday!”
My boyfriend, Cam, was the bassist for, in his eyes at least, Chicago’s premiere prog-rock band: the Junctures. He was lanky and goofy, just as likely to spend his lunch break skateboarding as he was to come up with a brilliant, psychedelic bass groove.
Much to my relief, his music was genuinely good, and he had booked his first headlining tour. The band decided to mark the occasion with a headline gig at the Beat Kitchen before embarking on a three-week tour along the East Coast.
Though I usually steered clear of the Junctures practice sessions, I told him I would stop by tonight. It felt corny to admit, but I would miss Cam during his tour, and I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible before he hit the road.
“Shit, I totally forgot. I'm not sure I can make it tonight but will try. If I don't make it, tell him he’s my favorite straight guy and that I’m excited for Friday.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
The Juncture’s practice space was located in the back of a wig shop in Pilsen. So, I hopped on the pink line and weaved my way through a sea of plastic mannequin heads.
I found Cam sitting on the beat-up couch shoved against the back wall, lazily tuning his bass.
I could see the muscles ripple in his forearms, which were extra tan from the summer, and covered in stick-and-poke tattoos. Cam’s parents immigrated to Chicago from Mexico when he was two years old, and he spent most of the summer with his grandmother and cousins in Mexico City.
When Cam saw me, he smiled. He had the kind of smile that overtook his entire face, and dimples to match, with kind large brown eyes.
While he was six-feet-four inches and seventy percent of his body was covered in tattoos, he was also a big old softie. He named Lobo because he thought Lobo’s meows sounded like a baby wolf.
“Hey babe,” I slid onto the couch next to him, pulling him in for a deep kiss.
He tasted like watermelon gum and Gatorade. He grabbed a handful of my hair and slid a warm hand under my shirt, cupping my breasts.
I groaned, “Not on this couch. You know it’s an STI-incarnate.”
“Later then,” he teased, “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” Cam laid his bass on the couch beside him, and I plopped my feet in his lap.
“Where are the rest of the guys?”
